


Show Me Your Love, Before--

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Series: Treats [12]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders talking with Justice, Caning, Consensual Sex, Fenris' fisting thing, Fight Scene, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, Lyrium Tattoos, M/M, Multi, Painplay, Sort Of, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Wax Play, endorphin/adrenaline high, lyrium as song, negotiating in bad faith, pinned down, praise aversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 09:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: Anders negotiates a caning scene in bad faith. He leaves when he doesn't get what he wants, but never quite said. What he doesn't know is he's breaking two hearts, not just one.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris/Male Hawke, Anders/Fenris/Male Hawke/Justice
Series: Treats [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/622592
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. Negotiation

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this took so long to get out. I could only write this in its final form if I left a little hope for what life will be like some day. Just. Not today. 
> 
> So. Big picture. Anders has canonically been living with a spirit partner for years, and yet he refuses to acknowledge Justice’s effect on his life for fear of being an abomination. The dishonesty in this fic is a result of trying to deal with that in the context of this triad’s dynamic, not anything Fenris or Hawke have done. If Anders had better information about living with a spirit, this never would have happened. I’m honestly mad as hell at Emperor Drakon, who has been dead for centuries at this point. Anyway, the timing matches horribly with Fenris confronting his feelings. 
> 
> Thanks to Liv for a super-quick beta! This fic is better because of your feedback. Any remaining problems are on me (and my characters).

They’re in the parlor, sipping wine. Well, most of them. Fenris notices that Anders isn’t touching it, but he _has_ asked for something. It seems like that’s much of what this parlor is for.

“Sure, Anders,” Fenris says, a curl of anticipation wrapping around his gut. “I’ll give you pain if you want it.” Give him Fenris’ heart, if he wants it. _Fasta vass, no, don’t say it and don’t do it._

“Well, I have something specific I’d like to try,” Anders says.

Hawke tilts his head. “Shoot.”

“I have a theory that Justice believes I’m being punished for something during our scenes,” Anders says. “I’d like to take that idea further, make the role-play stronger, the punishment harsher.”

“What are we punishing you for, Anders?” Fenris says teasingly. _This was supposed to be a little fun, that was supposed to be all,_ Fenris thinks.

Anders bites back with acid. “I thought my existence was enough for you, Fenris.” It stings and curdles like a physical wound.

“Is that what you believe?” Fenris doesn’t think he deserved that acid. Does he really care for this asshole?

Anders pulls aside the neck of his loose, heavy under-robe and touches the bite mark on his shoulder, left a few nights ago. “Tell me you don’t enjoy giving me pain.” Fenris’ annoyance melts. Anders had keened and clung to Fenris, and it had been too perfect to ruin with words like, _Remember that promise we made not to care for each other? I’ve accidentally broken it._

“I do. Tell me you don’t enjoy receiving it.” Where once Fenris might have taunted with the question, tonight he’s serious.

“I do,” Anders smiles, replacing his robes and righting their dynamic again. “Frankly, I think you enjoy _giving me pain_ more than Hawke does.”

“He pushes faster than I’m willing to, maybe,” Hawke chimes in. “But you moan so deliciously, I can’t complain.” He turns adoring eyes on Anders, and Fenris… finally sees the appeal.

“You do like to watch,” Anders says to Hawke, smiling. Later, Fenris will agonize over how false or genuine the smile was, but in the moment it seems genuine.

But also in the moment, Fenris is distracted by thoughts—memories—of Anders, crying out in that blend of pain and pleasure. Fenris hungrily eyes Anders, wanting desperately to make him feel. Not make him scream, though that will surely be another result. Everything is the same, and yet everything is off-center.

“Down boy,” Hawke laughs. “This is not the place for that.” Hawke turns to Anders. “What’d you have in mind?”

“I’ve heard good things… really good things… about a cane?” That gets Fenris’ attention. _Really good things._

Hawke nods cautiously. “Okay. Tell me more. What do you like about what you hear?”

“It hurts more. Leaves long-lasting marks,” Anders says. “I want to see if I can take the pain, and I’m always disappointed when the marks fade too fast.”

“It’s easier to break the skin with a cane,” Hawke says, but Fenris can tell he likes the idea. “We’re not doing this tonight. I’ll need to review what I have about caning, probably get a consult from the local Domme.”

Anders nods and looks at Fenris, and he considers. Caning would be an extra challenge, it would get more of a reaction from Anders, and he’s requesting it especially of Fenris.

“I want to do it,” Fenris admits.

“You’ll come with me, get training from the Domme if she has the expertise we’re looking for,” Hawke says. “I just want to watch you two.” Hear Anders yell. Fenris is going to give both of his men pleasure at the same time, caught between one’s desire to _watch_ and the other’s desire to _feel_. It’s a delicious thought. He sinks into it, lets his worry drain away.

“Tomorrow night, then?” Anders says.

“I was thinking three nights,” Hawke says, “but we can make it two.”

Fenris smiles over his glass. Anders’ eagerness makes Hawke eager, every time.

“All right if I go?” Anders asks. “I don’t want to ruin my… appetite.” Has Anders always sounded like that when he’s horny? It seems flat. The worry is back, but Fenris ignores it.

Instead he turns a mischievous look on Hawke. “I suppose that gives us more time to prepare,” he says.

On his way out, Anders says he loves Hawke, easy and free, and Hawke says it back like it’s obvious. Fenris doesn’t believe in love the way people talk about it, but he feels _something_. It’s not absolute devotion, like he feels for Hawke, but there’s a glow and a squirm in his chest. Pain whenever Anders gets dismissive. Not that his dismissiveness has ever changed. Maybe that’s what hurts.

When things go sideways, Fenris will wonder how he missed that Anders slid right by the teasing question of what he was being punished for, as if the answer didn’t matter.


	2. Caning

Two nights later, Hawke watches, drinking in the sight as Fenris pinches Anders’ bare nipple and kisses him hard. They’re kneeling, naked in the middle of Hawke’s bed, posed a bit so Hawke can easily see from his favorite chair off to one side. Fenris kisses Anders like it gives him air. He pulls Anders’ hair tie out gently, then pulls his head back as far as it will go by the hair as he kisses. When Anders is breathless and hard from it, Fenris bites his shoulder over the old bruise, making Anders first hiss, then rock; then cry out, teeth locked to the muscle but not breaking skin.

“Venhedis, I love the taste of you between my teeth,” he grits around Anders’ flesh. His lover’s flesh, even if Anders hasn’t noticed it. Hawke needs to sit down with both of them soon and gently prompt Fenris into saying what he needs to say. Maybe that will help Anders, too, with whatever’s been bothering him. But Hawke can set that aside for now.

Fenris releases Anders’ shoulder and groans into Anders’ ear: “Kneel on the bed with your hands on the headboard.”

Anders obeys and watches Fenris go to the wardrobe, tense with worry. He groans and relaxes when Fenris pulls out the cane, soaked in water and heavy. Good, he wants this that much.

“Did you think we wouldn’t give you what you asked for?” Hawke teases.

“He tried it on you, right? Is it as intense as I’ve heard?” Anders asks. Even with the collar, he’s allowed—required—to respond to questions.

Hawke smiles. “One stroke, after some thorough training. It’s intense,” he confirms. “You sure you don’t want a warm-up?”

“You didn’t get one, did you? You’re more careful with us than you are with yourself,” Anders says.

Fenris says, “It’s like he knows you, Hawke.” He smiles and slaps Anders’ ass, getting an annoyed look in return. “So obedient… and yet such a brat. Keep your hands on the headboard, brat, and move your knees back to here.” The tip of the cane touches the sheets behind him, leaving a damp spot. Anders moves his knees to precisely that location. The new position has Anders stretched between the headboard and his knees, far enough he has to concentrate on holding the pose.

“So good for it,” Hawke mumbles, pressing his half-hard cock through his silk trousers. He’s not there yet, but it’s a promising tableau.

“Good boy.” Fenris says, and Anders’ cock twitches at the praise, even as he frowns that Fenris is giving it. Has Anders always reacted that way, and Hawke is only noticing now that he knows how Fenris cares? But Fenris continues, “Now protect your balls with one hand and center the other on Hawke’s crest.”

Anders hesitates but shifts to cup his nearer hand around himself. He settles the other on the wood of the headboard, on one of the Hawke crests. He’s showing his face to Hawke, not Fenris. If that bothers Fenris, he doesn’t show it. Hawke tries not to let it bother him.

“How still can you be?” Fenris asks from the other side of the bed. As Anders freezes, not moving a muscle, Fenris takes a few practice swings against the bed, making a small noise of satisfaction. He uses the cane to stroke over Anders’ ass and the backs of his thighs until Anders is shivering with anticipation. Fenris adjusts his stance for a good angle to hit Anders evenly across both thighs. Anders whimpers and presses back against the cane.

“No, pet. Here are the rules. Stay here, exactly like this.” Fenris pushes Anders into place as he speaks. “If you move from this position, I will stop.” Anders whimpers an objection, but doesn’t move. “That’s a good pet.” Fenris continues stroking the cane over Anders’ ass and thighs, sensitizing the skin. Then he lifts it away to tap gently. Anders whimpers pleadingly—or worriedly?—but still doesn’t move. Fenris taps Anders a little harder on his ass and then across the backs of his thighs. Light pink marks flush in stripes over the skin, and Hawke can see Anders’ face twist each time.

“How’s that, pet?”

“Need more,” Anders says, and Maker his voice is wound up. Sure enough, the marks are fading around the edges.

Fenris pulls back a bit more and hits Anders hard enough that he cries out, pulling forward, straightening, and gasping. Hawke sits up hard in sympathetic memory. The welt is well-measured but dark.

Fenris says nothing, just uses the end of the cane to gently scrape the skin around the rising welt, crossing over it to keep Anders aware of his body. This is the point of any new play where Hawke worries. It’s become a part of the routine, but that doesn’t itself reduce the worry. Hawke remembers the sting on the backs of his own thighs, fresh-healed last night. He’d _hated_ it but had needed to know what it would feel like for Anders.

Hawke watches Anders gather his wits back together, gasping; watches him push himself back into the position for more. Hawke feels a swelling in his chest. Anders _likes_ this, _wants_ it, if his needy whimper is any indication. Fenris slides the cane against skin again, choosing the place for another welt.

Fenris pulls back, and hits Anders with another measured whack! of the cane against flesh. Anders calls out again, a guttural roar edged with Justice’s voice, but doesn’t move. Fenris slides down another few inches and immediately places another welt across Anders’ thighs. Anders roars again.

Fenris gives him one more stroke before Anders straightens again. This time, Fenris touches him with his fingertips, ostensibly teasing but Hawke can see the concern: How close are they to breaking skin? Fenris practiced every way the Domme asked, but she also said everyone’s a little different. Clearly satisfied, Fenris teases gently with his fingernails. Soon Anders returns to his position. Hawke admires the gorgeous stripes now tracing across Anders’ ass and thighs.

The next four closely-placed strokes leave Anders a shaking mess. Fenris is careful to ensure they don’t cross, don’t break the skin. Then on the last one Anders loses control and slides down the headboard, gasping and sobbing and out of his head.

Fenris sets the cane on the floor: _click, clack_ against the tiles. Then he lies next to Anders, who clings to him, still out of his head. Fenris kisses him forcefully again, biting his lower lip, cruelly or kindly making him aware of his body again, making him feel. It makes Hawke feel love for them both and horny enough he’s hard. Then Fenris leans to Anders’ ear and begins muttering, scratching his nails down his front.

Anders starts struggling, trying to get away from Fenris. “Wiggams, Wiggams, Wiggams.” _What the fuck was Fenris saying?_ Fenris lets him push away but catches him before he lands on his fresh welts. Anders pushes away again, sitting up, still uncoordinated, and Fenris tries to help him, still confused. Hawke finds himself on his feet striding over, if nothing else to keep Anders from stumbling off the bed.

Hawke puts a hand on Anders’ neck over the collar, steadying him. “Tell us, Anders,” he says. Anders calms against the touch but looks at Hawke like he’s betrayed him somehow. _Is this how he looks at Fenris? How does Fenris stand it?_

“No praise,” Anders objects. “’S not – not why I’m here.” Anders shakes his head, and falls back. Hawke catches him even as he wonders how accidental the near-misses against his welts are. _Something’s wrong._

Fenris shrugs. “I was only telling the truth. He did take it well.” What’s more, Anders has always loved praise before tonight. _What’s going on?_

Anders groans, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. Wiggams, let’s go, I can take more.” He moves toward his caning position on the headboard, but Fenris stops him.

“No,” Fenris says. He manhandles Anders onto the bed, face down but head turned to one side, hair carefully brushed away from his face. When Anders struggles, he says, “I need to talk to Hawke. Call it Jester, if you have to. I need a break.” Fenris tugs his hair soothingly, and Anders settles, lulled by the endorphins. Fenris covers Anders’ upper back with a blanket but leaves the welts open to the air.

Away from Anders, but where they can both keep an eye on him, Fenris says in a low voice, “What’s your read on him, Hawke?”

Hawke shakes his head. “This is the first time we’ve done this. Stop with the cane, and we’ll talk to him after. We can push like he’s asking next time, depending on what he says.”

“Join me on the bed with him? I want you close.” Fenris’ eyes drop, but it’s not subservience. “If I really hurt him, I…”

Hawke grabs his hand and squeezes it. “That’s a risk with this kind of play,” he says. “Anders knew that when he asked you for this.” Hawke breathes deeply, grounding himself, thinking over Anders’ reactions to the play. “Something seems off with Anders. You’ve only done what he asked for, and normally he loves praise. If you want to go to aftercare, even use the elfroot, I’ll back you.”

Fenris thinks about it. “He loves being beautiful. The next part might be aftercare, for him.”

Hawke smiles and gets his bright red candles from where they’d set them earlier.


	3. Justice

Anders wants more of the cane, Maker’s Bride he wants more, but he can’t pull himself together enough to ask for it. Justice demands… Justice demands…

There are words, wrapping around him without meaning. Hot wax against the welts is the stingy pain he’s looking for, and yet… this pain makes the body floaty, horny, makes him feel so much all over. He needs that other pain, the deep one that drives him out of his mind. The one that goes beyond all this and _hurts_. Clear his slate. Balance his scales. Anders lets go enough to let Justice ask for it directly, forgetting—not caring—that Fenris might not react well to a spirit in his bed. His voice carries, echoing with a blue tinge.

“I would like more of the cane,” Justice says.

Fenris sets down the candle, leaning close to Justice’s ear.

“Anders thought you’d like it,” he says in a voice low enough to be illegal in most of Nevarra. “No more of the cane tonight, Justice. Another time, perhaps. But Hawke told me you like lyrium.” Then he lights up. The body Anders and Justice share lights up, too, but with pleasure that has Justice shaking. _Of course Hawke would warn Fenris._ Then Justice can’t think again for a while.

It’s a never-ending song. It’s glory and awe and pleasure, the kind of pleasure he’s only experienced after freeing the people of Blackmarsh, righting wrongs, and making those responsible pay. He gets used to it, enough to think, enough to put words together again.

“Please touch me under my skin,” Justice begs, instead of the cane he thought he wanted. But it will be painful, won’t it? But that’s not why he wants it. He wants to know.

Fenris’ breath catches, and he and Hawke talk. Hawke is on the bed. Justice has trouble tracking… words. Fenris, still vibrating like a whole song in one note, smiles and touches the body’s skin, the song a sweet tune of pleasure. Then his fingertips shift into the Fade, sink into the flesh, and touch Justice himself.

Kristoff went to a symphony once. It was an Orlesian conceit, getting that many instruments coordinated on one song, or so Kristoff had thought. Yet Kristoff’s very soul had thrummed with the instruments. He’d met Aura at that symphony. Their mutual awe had been the first thing to draw them together.

Justice has had that memory since he left the Fade, but now he has the experience: Fenris’ touch sweeps him away in a complex symphony of pleasure and agony. It is a limitless song, like all lyrium, but it’s much more complex and beautiful than a simple tune.

The body is shaking, making Fenris’ still hand move through the flesh. Fenris’ touch withdraws, and Justice begs again, “Please don’t stop.” The body’s eyes are leaking, dampening the spread below them, Justice’s voice deeper and rougher than Anders, deeper and rougher than it normally is. Fenris’ touch returns. “I need… I don’t know.” He’s wrecked, and he doesn’t care that these two see. The dangerous distraction and the beautiful lyrium elf. When did he learn to trust them so much? Watching them with Anders, probably. He needs something, needs it desperately. He also knows when he gets it he might fall apart, and he’ll definitely stop feeling like _this_.

The pleasure becomes torturous and Anders assures him it’s worth risking. “Hawke, you know this body well,” Justice says. “You must know what I need.”

Hawke knows. Fenris’ hand withdraws, and Hawke gently turns Justice over like a shaking rag doll. “I’ve got you, Justice,” he says, wrapping his hand around the cock.

 _Yes!_ That _is_ what Justice needs. Fenris holds the arms down, phasing to touch Justice’s arms with a reassuring weight. Hawke sits on the legs, hand sliding slick over the cock. The soft sheets feel like sandpaper against the new welts. It feels like the body won’t survive its release. Justice doesn’t mind.

Fenris leans close and speaks low enough Hawke can’t hear. “If Anders says Wiggams, you _damn_ well better pass it on, spirit.”

And that’s it. One more complicated feeling—Fenris calling Justice spirit, not demon? Fenris looking out for Anders?—is too much to feel with everything else, and it tips Justice over into orgasm, blue-white light and a symphony made of bells. Like Anders always has for him, Justice passes on as much pleasure as he can, but he knows now it’s not the same. Still, the body yells with both voices: Justice and Anders in the throes of pleasure sounds like _this_. Then the light retreats. Justice, horrified, retreats. This… this is not his purpose. Anders comes forward, gasping breath Justice hadn’t known to deepen.

As soon as he can speak, Anders says, “That isn’t what we—what I came here for.” As soon as he can move, Anders takes off his collar and leaves.


	4. Leaving

Fenris runs down the stairs, still pulling on clothing, an act that had given Anders no trouble as he strode out Hawke’s bedroom door. But then, Fenris never got undressed when he was on the run. He’d never _been_ caught, and certainly never found without his armor.

“It’s his choice,” Hawke had said in the bedroom, pain evident in his voice. “Going after him is a mistake.”

Fenris couldn’t leave it. “It’s a mistake I need to make right now.” Hawke had nodded and said nothing more, clearly struggling with the desire to do the same and some hard-learned lesson Fenris hadn’t gotten.

Fenris bursts into the parlor now, but Anders shoves past him, then through the door into the main hall, buckling his armor as he goes.

“Anders!” Fenris rumbles. “What did we do?” The mage continues his stride to the exit, framed by the doorway. As he turns, he finishes the last buckle, his staff already on his back. Fenris is vaguely aware of Orana and Bodahn poking their heads out a side door.

“Fenris,” Anders says, cool enough to chill Fenris’ blood. His look of torment as Anders left the bedroom… is gone. _Is Hawke right? Am I making this worse?_ But he must try for more.

“What is wrong with you? We need to talk about this.”

“No,” Anders replies, checking the wrap on his wrist. “We don’t.” Then he turns again and walks out the front door. _The front door?! Why the void isn’t he using the back way?_ Better or worse, Fenris can’t let him travel Kirkwall at night alone.

“Kaffas,” mutters Fenris. He cannot leave without his arms and armor either, not with the street gangs Hawke hasn’t finished cleaning out. Fenris turns back to the parlor. He scoops up his armor, but as he scrambles, his chest piece clatters onto the hall floor. Bodahn picks it up.

“Begging your pardon, serah,” he says, then adroitly straps the chest piece on. Where did Hawke find this guy? Between the two of them, Fenris finishes in a fraction of the usual time.

“Thank you,” Fenris says.

“Keep him safe,” Bodahn replies.

Fenris forces his mind through his usual double-check before he straps the Sword of Mercy to his back, nods at Bodahn, and takes off after that fool mage.


	5. Fight

“What are you doing?” Anders can’t believe he’s looking at this many drawn weapons. _Has basic decency actually abandoned this town?_ “You let me through all the time. I heal people! Some of them _your_ people!”

“That was before you came with your Hawke to hunt She Whom We Follow.” This thug’s voice rings with true belief. Whatever.

“I was helping a friend,” Anders insists. “It had nothing to do with my _work_.”

“And now you won’t be able to help your friend anymore, will you?” The Follower of She winds back, blade in hand. Anders has no chance against so many. Everything he and Justice have worked for, gone. _We finally pay the price,_ Justice consoles grimly.

But the blow never falls. The Follower collapses and Fenris appears behind him, Sword of Mercy covered in blood.

Fenris shakes his head. “Now who holds the irony?”

Anders is surprised and… yes, angry. “Fenris! I didn’t ask you to follow me.” If Hawke and his party were here, it would be different. Hawke brings thugs of Kirkwall his own brand of justice.

“Fight now, mage. Argue later.” Fenris’ tattoos light up, and a hum fills the air. Anders hits the cobblestones in a longtime habit from fighting with the elf. A wave of spirit energy rushes overhead, knocking the circle of Followers—thugs, really—back enough to give Anders a little room to move, stunning them enough to give Anders a little time to cast.

Is it really that different? If these thugs get what’s coming to them, does it matter whether it’s Hawke’s hand or Anders’? No, it does not.

Anders smiles as he stands and grabs his staff. “Oh, this will be fun!”

“More enemies approach.” Fenris spins to face new attackers joining the fight, and Anders turns to face the rest, already preparing a fireball. “Shall we end this quickly?” Fenris suggests behind him.

Anders glares at the Followers recovering from Fenris’ attack. He remembers all the people who’d come to his clinic as victims of thugs like these, vividly recalling the blood, the lost patients. “I’m your worst nightmare!” he yells, casting.

Time to let Justice out to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love chapter breaks more than I maybe should.


	6. Already Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-reader save from Liv! She mentioned needing a little more of an idea of what was going on with Anders, and I completely agree. This chapter is the result.

The clinic door behind Anders rattles with the force of Fenris pounding on it. He braces his feet, pretending he needs to block the door and that it would do any good if Fenris decided to come through.

_Safe. We’re safe now… But safe from what?_

As the focus on surviving the streets of Kirkwall fades from Anders, Justice comes to the front, as he does so often these days.

 _What happened this evening?_ Justice demands, _Did they trick us?_

Anders had been supposed to safeword before orgasm, but he hadn’t counted on how scrambled his brain got, tangled up in the pain. And then of course Hawke and Fenris had turned pain to pleasure. It’s one of Anders’ favorite things about staying there, usually.

 _No, Justice._ Anders thinks wearily. _How could that be a trick? They gave you exactly what you asked for. You have to be more careful about what you ask when the body’s feeling…_ How to describe that particular drive? _...needy._

There’s a hard boom against the door, but it stops shaking.

 _We asked for pain. They gave us—they gave_ me _pleasure!_

“Open the door, mage,” Fenris shouts. But somehow he doesn’t sound angry.

_Concern?_

_No, definitely not. It’s Fenris._

And yet, Fenris followed him. He’d chosen Fenris to do the caning tonight because he wasn’t supposed to _follow_ after Anders gave his safeword and left. If he’d asked Hawke to cane him, he’d have agreed, but Hawke would follow… it doesn’t make sense that Fenris is here, and Hawke isn’t. Anders has a vague memory of some promise Hawke made him, years ago.

“Pe—Anders, please open the door, you—please open the door.” No, there’s some strain in his voice, it’s probably anger. Fenris is always angry, right?

_That was not a punishment, not justice for our past deeds._

_No,_ Anders thinks, _it wasn’t._ It was fun. They’d both enjoyed it, which was the problem.

_It certainly wasn’t punishment for what we will do tomorrow._

Anders nods mutely. They’d been planning tomorrow for years. He can’t remember anymore why he ever had objections. Anders brings to mind the barrels and barrels of gaatlock, suspended at optimum heights for destruction of the Chantry. It’s a restful idea, joyous even. Justice will be served. The pounding starts on the door again, but quieter this time. The words are easier to ignore.

_Do you think we made enough?_

**Author's Note:**

> Next work is written. I'm hoping to get it posted by Sunday, if all goes well.


End file.
